


It's Raining on Prom Night

by Nokomis



Category: Bandom, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Blood, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:31:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nokomis/pseuds/Nokomis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After performing at a stunt show, Frank and Mikey get a distress call from the other Killjoys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Raining on Prom Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for no_tags 2011. Thanks to lielabell for the beta, and wasoncedelight for the handholding!

Nobody loses any limbs at the stunt show, which is good, Mikey guesses, but they probably would have earned more carbons if someone _had_ gotten something chopped off. He doesn’t say anything to the organizers, though, because they’ve gotten ruthless and he doesn’t want the mechanical shark jump getting any more gnarly. He might come again next year, after all, if he hasn’t been ghosted by then.

Frank’s still signing shit for the kids, mostly the wanted posters that BL/ind slathers over every available surface. Mikey can see that most of the posters are ripped at the corners. He likes to picture Dracs having to go around re-applying posters after a bunch of teeny-Zoneboppers have stolen them right off BL/Ind property.

Mikey makes sure his bike is still drivable before the ride back to the diner. He’s pretty sure the shocks are blown, but that’s to be expected after jumping a bike that was never designed to be jumped. He knocks a few spokes back into shape with a wrench he borrows off a nearby ‘droid, and figures that it’ll be bumpy but that he’ll make it there.

“Everything shiny?”

Frank peers over his shoulder, hands resting loosely on Mikey’s upper back for balance.

“Servicable,” Mikey says. “Yours?”

“Thrashed,” Frank says. “Probably shouldn’t have tried that second jump.”

“You were lucky to land the first,” Mikey agrees, and Frank elbows him in the spine.

“You’re gonna have to give me a lift,” Frank says, “and since you gave me lip I think you should ride bitch.”

Frank is a shit. Mikey raises an eyebrow. “I’m not riding bitch on my own bike.”

“Your brother is a lot more accommodating.” Frank leers just a little.

Mikey rolls his eyes and doesn’t rise to the bait. “Please. I always get shotgun.”

“All the more reason!” Frank teases, then glances to the bank of vending machines. “Gonna hack us some chow?

“I was planning on letting us starve,” Mikey says dryly.

He’s halfway to the bank of vending machines – got to stock up while he’s in a relatively civilized area, especially since no one here seems to want to turn him over to S\C\A\R\E\C\R\O\W – when his communicator beeps.

Gerard’s voice, tiny and harried, is too soft to properly hear. Mikey lifts his communicator to his ear to better make his words out.

“Dracs raided us.” The sentence is punctuated with a sharp blast of feedback. Mikey winces, but doesn’t pull away. He can faintly hear Gerard giving a command.

Mikey has to ask, even though the fact Gerard is messaging him means he’s not captured. “Everyone okay?”

“Only flesh wounds,” Gerard says, and Mikey snorts. “We need backup, though. Not sure if they found the car or not. It’s dodgy out there. I’m pretty sure there are more Dracs lurking.”

“We’re on our way,” Mikey promises.

“Go, go, Speed Racer,” Gerard says, and Mikey’s still smiling when the communicator gives an ominous burst of static.

“Gerard?” Mikey hisses, momentarily forgetting to use code names. “Everything okay?”

No answer, just erratic bursts of static.

“Talk to me.” Mikey’s frantic, wants to reach through the communicator to make sure Gerard’s safe. He knows Gee is with Ray and Cherri Cola, knows they’ll do their best to keep him safe, and hopes that it’s just a communicator malfunction.

Still, he races back to where Frank is poking at his salvage heap of a bike and says, “Trouble. They got raided by Dracs, and…” He realizes that there are Zone-bunnies standing around just before he blurts out Gerard’s name, ”and Party Poison’s comm went out.”

Frank’s eyes go wide and he says briskly, “Let’s go.”

They push past the kids who had gathered around, obviously trying to hear what had happened to the Killjoys. Frank doesn’t even complain when he hops on the back of Mikey’s bike, hands clenched too-tight into Mikey’s side. The leather of Mikey’s jacket bunches uncomfortably from the way Frank’s fingers are digging in, but Mikey doesn’t want him to let go.

Mikey’s hands are shaking enough that he’s nervous about maneuvering the bike, but he forces himself to stay calm.

He thinks he’d _know_ if Gerard got ghosted, somehow feel it in his gut and in his heart before anyone told him, but that doesn’t lessen the fear he feels every time he lifts his communicator to his ear and hears only static on Gerard’s line.

Ray’s line likewise only spits out erratic crackles of static interspersed with white noise, and Cherri Cola’s line is completely dead.

Frank leans in tight and suggests a shortcut. It’s a dirt road that cuts at least half an hour off the drive to Zone 6, and normally Mikey would think it’s too dangerous to risk for so little return, but right now half an hour could mean the difference between…

Everything.

There’d been a time, back when the Pig Wars started, when Mikey had lost Gerard. They’d been separated for two months, and every second of those two months was burned into his head in gut-wrenching clarity. The constant thought that Gerard might be dead, that Mikey might be alone forever, that Mikey had nothing in this world…

He couldn’t live like that again. The only way he’d survived it the first time was the tiny, niggling hope that Gerard was alive somewhere. That Gerard was somewhere looking for him the same way Mikey was searching for Gerard.

Frank’s grip hasn’t lessened, and Mikey wants to ask him if he’s okay, but he can’t. Doesn’t want to hear the answer, doesn’t want to… doesn’t want to share what he’s feeling. Gerard is _his_ and he knows better than anyone the effect Gerard has, but it doesn’t mean that he likes sharing him.

The Killjoys are his family, his brothers, but some things go deeper.

The bike hits a particularly deep pothole that sends the bike careening across the road. Mikey manages to recover – he’s pretty sure he’s going to have bruises from where Frank’s holding on – but it’s a close one. Too close.

The shortcut is a hard drive under the best of circumstances, and Mikey’d forgotten about his blown shocks. Every bump and dip in the dirt road sends painful jolts through his knees and wrists. He holds on the best he can and goes as fast as he dares, but it’s hard to keep control, especially since Mikey isn’t used to the weight of another person on the back of the bike.

Frank’s a good passenger – knows to lean with Mikey, doesn’t shift his weight any – but the road’s still a nightmare.

It’s almost a relief, having to focus utterly on anticipating what shadows on the road are going to cause the front wheel to shimmy and which are just shadows. It keeps him from thinking too much about Gerard and what might be happening out in Zone 6. Mikey knows his brother can take care of himself, that he’s gotten out of worse scrapes than a few Dracs, but Mikey feels wrong about it all.

Like there’s something bigger happening than just a raid.

He’s grateful thankful for the noise and the rough ride. It prevents him from having to say anything to Frank, because Frank’s one of the few people who doesn’t scoff at the connection the Way brothers share. Frank would just get that pinched, pale, worried look and Mikey doesn’t want to see that. Doesn’t want to see his own fear reflected back at him.

They’re ten miles down the shortcut when Mikey realizes the wind has picked up. It’s too early for sunset, but the sky is darkening, turning an menacing, deep reddish color.

Frank taps Mikey’s shoulder, and he slows to a stop. They climb off the bike, looking at the sky. Standing still, the wind is stronger than Mikey had assumed. There’s a strange, metallic scent in the air, and Mikey feels the animalistic need to hide, to find shelter.

Irrationally he thinks of the bomb drills they’d had back in elementary school, and desperately longs for a desk to hide under.

“What do you think?” Mikey says finally.

“Wrong color for rain,” Frank says fretfully. He hasn’t stopped moving since he got off the bike, pacing and needlessly checking gauges and picking up stones. “But we need to get to the boys.”

Frank thinks it’s something worse than rain, then. Mikey was afraid of that. Instincts are everything out in the Zones, and if both of them felt the screaming need to get out of there…

He takes a deep breath. “We have to hurry.”

They scramble back on the bike and Mikey abandons what little caution he’d had, speeding across the desert recklessly, holding on tight and hoping for the best when he hits the bumps he can’t avoid.

When the first few drops hit, Mikey at first feels relief. Frank was wrong. It’s just a rainstorm.

Then he realizes the drops are obscuring his vision, and when he dares to let go of the handlebar long enough to wipe it away it leaves an ugly red smear.

Frank’s yelling in his ear, and Mikey doesn’t want to hear the words. Blood rain. It’s blood rain, and that means they have to find shelter _immediately_. The blood probably won’t hurt them – a slight advantage over the acid showers – but Mikey’s seen the way it wrecks motors and can imagine how thick, drying blood will destroy his bike – clotting up the intake, gunking up the fan, locking up the transmission. It’ll be a miracle if the bike will _roll_ if the rain keeps falling, much less start.

No one knows they’re out here.

“Call Dr D,” Mikey yells back, because this road isn’t on the maps. It’s a smuggler route, and if the storm gets bad enough to knock out transmissions, they might be stranded out here for god knows how long. They’ve got no provisions, nothing more than their weapons and a few bottles of water. Mikey’d never even made it to the vending machines back at the stunt show. If they’re stranded, they’re fucked.

He can hear Frank’s voice faintly, repeating Dr. D’s name over and over in increasingly desperate tones, and Mikey knows that their communicators are fritzing out. He tries to keep concentrating on finding any sort of shelter, man-made or natural, just so long as it keeps them out of the rain, which is falling in thick, gruesome drops. Mikey keeps wiping at his visor but it’s getting harder and harder to see; everything’s blurred red.

Frank’s hands are tight on his hips. It’s still the only thing holding him steady.

Mikey catches the slightest glint of metal to the left. It’s a couple hundred yards off the road and it’s probably just an old barrel of contaminants, but it’s the only thing he’s seen that had the chance of being shelter. His bike is beginning to slip and slide on the road, which is quickly turning to a thick, viscous mud. Mikey’s grateful they left a stunt show, is thankful he took his utilitarian dirt bike instead of the more luxurious motorcycle he’d scored off a ghosted Drac a couple months back, but he’s still having trouble keeping the bike upright as he veers in the direction of the glint.

It’s not a barrel.

It’s a shed. A motherfucking _shed_.

Its rusted tin roof probably leaks and the walls are made of warped boards that are probably radioactive, but it’s still got a door and Mikey thinks it’s big enough to get the bike inside. Maybe there’ll be a tarp or some old rags they can use to get the blood out of the engine before it ruins everything.

He can faintly hear Frank praying thankfully behind him as he pulls to an unsteady stop at the shed’s door. They exchange glances through their bloody visors before pulling their ray guns. Mikey jerks open the door; Frank takes point and storms inside, gun at the ready.

“It’s clear,” Frank yells, and Mikey pushes the bike inside. He can’t see anything in the sudden dimness of the shed, and it takes him a second to realize that his obscured visor is to blame. He pulls of his helmet, trying not to look at how gorey it is. Trying not to notice how Frank looks like last month’s centerfold in _Murder Magazine_.

He knows that he and Frank aren’t injured, but there’s so much blood everywhere that his stomach lurches. He sets his helmet next to Frank’s on the ground next to the floor, surveying the interior of the shed. His bike looks terrible; flashes of yellow barely visible beneath the blood. The seat and the sides that were covered by his and Frank’s legs seem okay, but it’s hard telling what havoc dried blood will wreak.

The shed’s slightly larger than he supposed. There’s a table to one side, rickety mismatched chairs surrounding it. A few jumbled shelves; hopefully they’ll contain something useful. And there’s a low dark trunk under what looks to be a boarded up window. Mikey suspects they’ve stumbled across a smuggler pit stop.

Frank peels off his vest and bandana, holding them out at arm’s length. “This is disgusting.”

The sleeves of Frank’s shirt are clinging wetly to his arms which are smeared red. There are matching smears everywhere he touches – his cheek, his forehead where he forgetfully pushed back his hair, even on the door. Crimson rivulets stream down his neck. Mikey has to look away.

Mikey can already feel the blood on his own neck starting to become tacky now that dry air is hitting it. He shrugs out of his own jacket, peeling off his gloves and trying to decide if his jeans are a lost cause or not. Probably, judging by how wet they feel. Frank’s look okay, since he was tucked in behind Mikey.

Frank follows his eyes and lets out a triumphant, “Ha! Riding bitch was totally the best option after all.”

“Fuck you,” Mikey says. He doesn’t see any rags or anything, so he puts his jacket across the back of one of the chairs and opens the trunk. There’s a raggedy blanket inside; Mikey figures it’ll have to be spared to clean up the bike.

Frank helps and they get most of the blood off, but Mikey’s still unsure that the bike will run properly after this, between the stunt show and the blood storm. The blanket’s ruined afterwards, though Frank still tries to clean himself up with it unsuccessfully.

“Got any signals?” he asks, checking his communicator.

Frank shakes his head. The tips of his hair are damp with blood and droplets spray out as Frank moves. “Nothing. We must be in a magnetic field. Something out there’s interfering.”

Shit. Mikey hasn’t considered that. He slumps against the table. “So we’re fucked.”

Frank’s lip quirks. “We got caught in a blood storm on our way to rescue our friends. Everyone’s fucked. This whole world is fucked.”

“Point,” Mikey agrees. He cracks open the door. Blood is still pouring from the sky, and a thin trickle makes its way inside before he shuts the door again, tucking a scrap of the blanket along the bottom to keep their shed as dry as possible.

The roof is more solid than Mikey would have guessed, and there is only one spot where blood _drip-drip-drips_ through. Frank finds an old tin on the shelf, dumps out the rusty bolts inside and sets it under the leak. The dripping sound’s louder but at least there isn’t a growing puddle of blood on the floor.

Mikey settles against the table, not trusting the rickety chairs. Now that they’re safe, he realizes that they’re stuck here until the storm passes. Gerard’s out there fighting for his life and Mikey’s trapped in a tiny shed in the desert because the fucking sky decided to shower them in _blood_.

He resists the urge to check outside again. He can hear the blood rain falling steadily on the tin roof. Frank’s pacing back and forth, and Mikey can practically feel the frustrated energy coming off him.

“Do you think they’re okay?” Frank asks abruptly. “Gee wouldn’t ask for backup if it was nothing.”

Mikey pauses. “I’m worried, but I don’t think they’re… you know.” He can’t say the word aloud.

Frank nods. “I didn’t think you’d be holding together so well if you thought they were ghosted.”

The word slides off Frank’s tongue like it’s nothing; Mikey almost envies him. Frank is just as worried as Mikey is, but he’s obviously not as superstitious. For Mikey it’s different. He’s learned the hard way that saying words aloud give them power; it’s why code names are so important.

Mikey shakes his head. “They have to be okay. It’s _Gerard_.”

Mikey isn’t as certain as he sounds, but it makes Frank take a deep breath and nod. Mikey knows his brother and knows with a certainty that’s almost frightening that he can find a way out of anything, and he has to believe that Gerard will make it even if Mikey can’t swoop in to rescue him. He _has_ to.

Mikey tries his best not to think about the fact that Gerard _thinks_ he’s on his way.

“Gerard can do anything,” Frank agrees, and slouches against the table next to Mikey, wrapping a red-streaked arm around Mikey’s waist. Mikey immediately feels the same reassurance he felt on the bike, like Frank’s confidence bolsters his own.

He nods. “Of course he can.”

“And it’ll stop raining soon,” Frank says, despite the fact that the rain is coming down harder than before, despite the fact that the tin can catching the leak is over half-full already. “We’ll still get there to help.”

Mikey nods.

“Besides, Ray’s probably pistol-whipped them into submission,” Frank offers.

“They’re probably celebrating right now,” Mikey adds. “Redistributing the loot they got from all the Dracs they ghosted. Wondering where we are.”

The rain _pit-pit-pats_ against the roof like it’s mocking them.

Frank rests his head against Mikey’s shoulder and Mikey moves his arm to more easily accommodate him. “We’ll come up with a great story. Something even better than fending off a horde of Draculoids while carousing in the red light district.”

Mikey wants to see Gerard’s face when Frank accuses him of carousing. More importantly, Mikey wants to _see Gerard’s face_. “One of us could develop telekinesis. It’d be like _Carrie_ leveled up times a hundred.”

“And instead of taking our sweet revenge on John Travolta, we could take it out on _nature itself_ ,” Frank adds.

Mikey’s shoulders shake. “Ultimate badasses.”

“For life,” Frank declares, offering up a fist to bump.

Mikey bumps it, but doesn’t pull his fist away. Frank immediately understands and intertwines their fingers, holding tight onto Mikey’s hand. He rubs his thumb reassuringly against Mikey’s, and Mikey lets out a tiny sigh. Their hands are filthy with mud and blood and Mikey can’t stop staring at the way the dark streaks make their hands look like they belong on strangers.

“They have to be okay,” he repeats. “Have to.”

Mikey clenches his hand harder. The light in the shed is dim but the red streaks down Frank’s neck and splattered across his jeans and tattooed arms is still vivid enough that Mikey thinks he’ll dream about it, joining the seemingly endless stream of haunting images that he’s seen since the world ended.

He tries to imagine what he looks like. His hair must be showing the blood more vividly than Frank’s; he can feel streaks drying on his skin, everywhere from the backs of his knees under his jeans, which are feeling weirdly heavy and stiff, to behind his ears and down the side of his face, and for a dread-filled second he thinks he must look like Gerard might, crimson-haired and bloody.

Mikey realizes that he’s been silent too long, that Frank is looking worried, that he can’t tell whose hand is clenching harder. He has to do something. Suddenly feels like a the trapped animal he is, like every fucking drop hitting the tin roof is a gunshot fired at him directly by BL/Ind. Everything is too much: the rain, the strange blood drying on his skin, making him want to wash it away, to use what little water they have to scrub himself clean. He wants to leave, wants to get to Gerard, has to make everything good.

Has to get the sound of static out of his head where it’s buzzing like a funeral dirge.

So he kisses Frank.

Frank kisses him back and Mikey has somewhere to channel the desire he has to get out of here. He pushes forward, and it feels good. Wonderful, even, to just tangle his free hand into Frank’s hair and to lick Frank’s lips – they taste strange, metallic, and it takes Mikey a second to realize why – and to channel his frustration into something, anything.

His thumb leaves a trail of pink behind when he brushes it across Frank’s cheek.

Frank’s kissing back just as eagerly, like it’s a fight he’s determined to win. Mikey can’t tell what he’s thinking of, can’t focus on anything but his own need and frustration, but Frank’s just as single-minded. He’s the one who stands up, the one who moves so he’s in front of Mikey, never losing contact, and pushes his hips against Mikey’s.

Mikey’s still leaning against the table, so he spreads his legs so Frank can stand between them. They’re pressed flush against each other, can _feel_ each other, and neither has loosened the death grip their hands are in.

Frank’s skin isn’t soft beneath Mikey’s hand but clammy and sticky and covered in strange patches of drying blood, and Mikey can’t stop stroking his cheek, neck, scalp as he keeps kissing him. He wants the contact, wants the visceral proof that he’s not alone, wants _everything_ , fuck the consequences.

Kissing Frank is easy, easier than anything Mikey can remember doing, and it doesn’t matter that the kiss tastes like blood. It’s _Frank_ and he’s here and he’s just as worried about Gerard and Ray as Mikey is, and he’s just as helpless, and they’re in this together.

Frank finally loosens his grip on Mikey’s hand, and Mikey’s fingers feel strangely creaky and old as he unfolds them, like he’s been gripping Frank’s hand for years. He misses the contact, but Frank’s already working on Mikey’s belt.

It takes a minute and Mikey thinks his fingers must feel as uncooperative as Mikey’s own, but he gets the belt undone and then Mikey’s fly. He plunges his hand into Mikey’s pants, and Mikey’s grateful that he’s the one still leaning on the table, because his knees would have buckled if he had to both support his weight and feel Frank’s hand wrapped around his cock.

“Fuck,” he moans, and Frank meets his eyes. Smiles all cock-sure and bright, and Mikey can’t stand it.

He shoves at his own pants gracelessly, but they’re stiff with dried gore and will only go down far  
enough to let his dick spring free.

“Sure ‘bout this?” Frank asks, quickly, like he’s pulling a bandage off.

Mikey realizes Frank’s afraid he’ll back down. “This isn’t prom night. Just move your fucking hand already.”

Frank laughs a little to himself, getting a better grip on Mikey’s dick, and then kisses Mikey again, pushing his hips forward.

Mikey gasps into his mouth, grips the side of the table, and concentrates hard on not coming. His ray gun holster droops against his knee, and Mikey has just enough presence of mind to put his gun on the table where it won’t fall out and accidentally shot someone in the leg. Or somewhere worse.

He brushes against Frank’s belt buckle and he realizes that Frank’s still dressed. He should do something about that, should reciprocate, but Frank’s hand twists around his dick in a way that makes concentrating on something as difficult as a belt buckle impossible.

He can’t seem to stop kissing Frank, wet and messy and desperate. The edge of the table is biting into his ass, his fingers still feel clumsy as he slides his hands under Frank’s shirt, and he feels like he’s teetering on the edge of a cliff. Frank mumbles something that Mikey can’t quite make out, then licks and kisses his way down Mikey’s throat.

Frank’s grip loosens as he grazes his teeth against Mikey’s neck, and Mikey lets out a low, needy sound. His voice sounds strange to his own ears, like it belongs to someone else. Frank’s hand drops completely away as he pushes against Mikey, rubbing himself against Mikey’s inner thigh, even as his mouth works against Mikey’s throat.

Mikey doesn’t shove Frank’s hand back on his dick like he’s desperate to, but instead drops his own hands to Frank’s belt. The worn canvas feels rough after the smoothness of Frank’s skin, and Mikey fumbles for a moment with the clasp before getting it loose enough to unbutton Frank’s pants.

Frank’s jeans slide down easier than Mikey’s own had; they’re looser and less caked with gore. Mikey wraps his hand around Frank’s dick, rubbing his thumb over its head. He strokes it a few times, hard and fast, and Frank _moans_.

The sound is like a jolt directly to Mikey’s dick, and his hips snap forward. There’s a sweet pressure where their dicks press together, and Mikey pushes his hips forward again, seeking friction. The heat of Frank’s dick against his own is almost as sweet as the feel of Frank’s fingers wrapped around him.

It’s almost enough to make him forget Gerard.

His hips stutter and he momentarily forgets to keep stroking Frank’s dick, but Frank grunts and pushes up against him in a way that’s impossible to ignore. He resumes jerking Frank off, and it’s a strange sensation, feeling his own knuckles as he thrusts against Frank’s dick.

Frank’s getting close, and Mikey speeds up, twists his hand just the way he likes it himself, and then Frank’s coming. Frank buries his head into Mikey’s shoulder and _bites_ and there’s warm stickiness spiling across Mikey’s hand, on Mikey’s _dick_ , and he lets go and jerks himself off while Frank’s still got his mouth on his shoulder.

He comes quickly, riding out his orgasm while Frank’s draped over him, making low, contended sounds.

Mikey stares over Frank’s shoulder at the two bloody helmets sitting side by side by the door. Frank’s pressed flush against him and Mikey absently wipes his hand on the back of Frank’s shirt, and the sound of the rain is drumming through his head, quicker than his heartbeat. The blood is pooling beneath the helmets and Mikey can only think of what Gerard’s mousecat head would look like with similar drips of blood staining its fur.

Guilt is pooling within him. The afterglow is already fading under the ruthless knowledge that Gerard is still out there in danger, that Ray is out there in danger, and he’s got his pants around his knees. Frank straightens up and Mikey realizes, that Frank’s got a faintly queasy expression on his face, like his thought process is the same as Mikey’s. They don’t have to say anything; they’re close enough to understand.

Neither looks at the other as they dress. Mikey stares at his belt buckle, already wishing he could return to a minute before, when all that mattered was friction and heat.

Mikey doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to make Frank smile and erase the tangles of guilt from Mikey’s own gut, so he resorts to, “The rain will stop soon. It has to.”

Frank nods. “It’s tapering down.”

The beat of droplets on the roof is as steady as ever, but Mikey agrees anyway. He hoists himself up on the table, legs swinging, and after a moment Frank joins him, pressed in determinedly close.

“They’ve gotten out of worse jams,” Frank says quietly.

“I know,” Mikey replies. He reaches over and grasps Frank’s hand, even as guilt twists his stomach. “But we were _there_.”

He doesn’t have to clarify. He knows Frank gets it, understands how much easier it is to be out there in the thick of it than waiting around to hear the news.

They sit together, legs swinging in synch, hands clutched bruisingly tight, listening to the rain fall.

“We should clean up,” Mikey says finally, and Frank’s opening his mouth to undoubtedly make one his oh-so-hilarious jokes about Ways and cats and baths, but then there’s a strange noise in the shed.

It takes Mikey a second to realize it’s his communicator. It’s buzzing.

The magnetic storm must be lifting; Mikey would bet anything the bloodstorm will soon pass as well. The voice on the other end is faint and crackling with static but recognizable. Relief washes over Mikey.

Gerard says, “Got a few burns and Ray needs doctorin’, but we made it out.”

“Ten-four,” Frank says. “You had us worried, asshole.”

“You okay?” Gerard asks. “You never came for us.”

“Blood storm,” Mikey manages. It’s _Gerard_ , he’s alive and Mikey’s heart feels like it’s going to pound through his chest. “You totally missed out.”

Gerard’s laughter rings like a bell through the room. Mikey grabs Frank’s hand and holds it tight. His relief is reflected in Frank’s smile, and Frank squeezes back.

They’re safe.


End file.
